


No Presents, Please

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday Presents, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:53:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't want to celebrate his birthday, so John celebrates something else.</p><p>Love Bingo prompt fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Presents, Please

Sherlock’s birthday was coming. It hadn’t been a big deal when they had been just flatmates, but now that they were lovers Sherlock was worried. He knew that John attached significance to such things, knew that he would try to engage Sherlock in some sentimental celebration unless steps were taken. Accordingly, he made some pungent remarks about birthday cards, birthday gifts, and birthday parties. He was particularly scathing on the topic of Angelo putting candles on desserts rather than (or in addition too, much more likely) tables. Judging from the hurt look John quickly blanked from his face, the message had been received. He’d thought the problem solved, but hadn’t counted on the cunning force of John Watson. 

On the morning in question, he’d emerged from their bedroom to find John making toast, and a wrapped package sitting on the desk. How like John, to ignore his distaste for such things. Sherlock glanced into the kitchen. John appeared to be totally absorbed in spreading butter to the exact edge of the toast, but the set of his shoulders indicated that he was listening hard. The detective sauntered to the desk, brushed a hand over the stiff paper (black with silver swirls) and flipped the tag (silver, with a skull outlined in black glitter).

_**To Ichabod, from John, on the anniversary of your demise. Happy death-day .** _

What? He started with the name; maybe the rest would become clear if he knew who the recipient was. “Ichabod? You don’t know anyone named Ichabod.”

John handed Sherlock a plate of toast. “Sure I do. We both do. I met Ichabod about the same time I met you. Well, I say ‘met’.” He set down his tea and tilted his head toward the mantel. 

Sherlock went still, staring at his partner. “You named the skull.” He stood there, blinking. “Ichabod?”

John picked up the item in question, smiled beatifically. “He wouldn’t tell me his real name, so I suggested Ichabod. He liked it, thought it was funny, especially when I told him how that story used to scare me pants-less.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, squinted at John. Raven curls bounced as he shook his head against the flood of illogic. “You named the skull Ichabod, and you bought it a present?”

“Yep. It’s his death-day, you know.”

“It is not.”

“Yes, it is. He told me.” The skull in John’s hand nodded solemnly.

Of course Sherlock knew better; he had the documentation. John was being silly. John was being ridiculous. Sherlock would have liked to tell him so, but John was also grinning up at him in mischievous delight. Sherlock had done many terrible things in the course of his lifetime. The one thing he would regret for the rest of his days was the near destruction of John’s laughter. If Sherlock’s return had been John’s miracle, John finally, _finally_ , laughing again had been Sherlock’s. Not for anything would he quash those spirits. Still, appearances must be maintained. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re telling me that...Ichabod’s...death date is the same as my birth date? What a remarkably unlikely coincidence.”

John nodded. “It is. I thought so myself. Still, it’s fitting, isn’t it? Sort of...I don’t know, poetic.” He tipped his head in a listening pose, jiggled the skull next to his ear. “Ichabod asks if you would help him open his death-day present. Seeing as he doesn’t have any actual hands.”

Sherlock snorted, but put down his plate and picked up the package. He carried it over to his armchair, gave it an experimental shake to assess its weight. Slim fingers slid along the seam, then grasped the edges of the paper and parted it. He was rendered speechless for the second time that morning by the bench-top centrifuge thus revealed. The specs were printed on the box: variable speed, rapid spin-up and down, programmable timer. And it would fit perfectly in the open space next to the toaster. One large hand curved protectively around the box, the other stroking the printed image reverently. He turned wide eyes on the marvelous person standing before him. 

John was shaking the skull again with a look of concentration. Sherlock wondered if that thoughtful ‘mmm-hmmmm’ sound was something they taught in medical school. Finally, John turned to meet the empty eye sockets and asked seriously “Really, Icky? Are you sure?” Again the skull was made to nod, and then replaced on the shelf. “Ichabod says that he quite likes his death-day present, but, well, it’s that hands thing again. So he’d be pleased if you would use it on his behalf. For whatever experiments might require it.” 

Sherlock swallowed his grin, plastered on a disappointed look. “That’s exceedingly transparent, John.” At John’s shrug he relented, looked at the mantel and said “I’d be honored, Ichabod, and I wish you all the best on your death-anniversary.” A tug on John’s hand pulled him close for a tender kiss. “You are ridiculous, and devious, and amazing.”

“I have to be, to keep up with you. Happy birthday, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> For my "birthdays and anniversaries" bingo square. 
> 
> I don't own these characters. No disrespect intended, no money made. 
> 
> No beta, no brit-picker.


End file.
